I'm huddled over him in an awkward crouch, but I don't realize how close I am to pushing my bottom into the air until his hand slides over my backside, caressing and exploring. I suck in a breath when he pushes up my flannel nightie, exposing my panties, and his hand strokes over the seam of my buttocks and glides between my legs.
Oh, my legs are pressed too tightly together. I want his hand there. I shift on the bed and ease my knees apart so he can touch me again, if he wants to.
I hope he wants to.
I take the head of his cock into my mouth again and rub my tongue against it.
He groans once more, and his fingers glide along the silky line of my panties, heading back toward my sex. Unconsciously, I raise my hips, needing his touch. I'm distracted, my breath is coming as quick little pants as I tongue and lick at the head of his cock. I'm waiting for him to touch me, to rub me through my panties.
But he doesn't; instead, his fingers slide under the band of my panties, and I feel him glide one through the folds of my sex.
"Bozhe moi, Daisy. You're so fucking wet." I feel his finger searching for my opening, and then he thrusts it deep inside me.
I whimper, because it feels invasive…and yet good. I press back against his hand and my mouth flutters against his cock. The beads of arousal that drip down the head of his cock drags over my lips, wetting them, and I moan when his finger thrusts deep inside me again. What we're doing is so incredibly wicked…and delicious.
His finger thrusts inside me again, and I'm so wet that I hear the sound of his fingers moving in my panties. He mutters something else in Russian and then pulls his fingers out, and I make a noise of protest. It is replaced a moment later with another finger—no, his thumb, and I feel his index finger seeking out my clitoris.
And I'm suddenly having a hard time lining up his cock with my mouth. I'm trembling, weak with need. I was in control, but now he's driving me just as wild as I was driving him. I don't want him to stop, either. His finger finds my clit, and I cry out against his cock as he gives it a stroke with a fingertip.
"Take me in your mouth, Daisy," he tells me. "Like you will pull me into your throat."
Oh. Realization dawns, and I picture this and want to do it for him. I suck on the head of his cock again, even as he continues to work on my cunt with his fingers, and it takes everything I have to concentrate. I open my mouth wide, and his cock rubs along my tongue. With a little movement of his hips, he's pushing deeper into my mouth, and I open as wide as I can, taking him as far back as I can. My gag reflex works, and I release him, coughing, and then take him deep again.
"Ah, Daisy," he grits. His fingers move against my clit, his thumb grinding inside me. "You are perfection. Will you come for me? With your little bottom in my hands as I pleasure you? With your mouth on my cock?"
His words are exciting, and I can't help but push back against his invasive, wonderful fingers. I'm making small noises in my throat, even as I try to take him deeper into my mouth. I pull on his cock with my tongue and my mouth, and he hits the back of my throat, which startles both of us. I rear back, and Nick cusses. But he liked that, so I try it again.
It's getting harder for me to concentrate; his fingers are hammering into my panties, and I'm losing control. I can't keep his cock in my mouth. My lips are greedy for him, but my body is quivering and distracted, and my breath is coming in weird little pants. All the while, Nick is murmuring encouragement. I settle for rolling the thick, blunt head of his cock against my lips, letting the wetness move over them as I kiss it frantically and work my hips against his fingers.
Then, it's there; that odd, wonderful tightening deep inside me that tells me I'm coming. I cry out, my body shuddering, and then Nick's cock jerks in my hands. A warm spurt splashes across my lips, and then I realize he's coming too. I pull back, but he continues to come, and it's on my hands and face, and now his belly and jeans.
He cusses something again, and I feel his fingers slide out of my body. There's an embarrassingly wet sound as they leave my sex, and then he's rolling off the bed, heading to the bathroom.
And I'm left there, crouching on the bed with his semen splattered on my face and hands, my sex throbbing and slick from my own release. And I'm not entirely sure what to do. We didn't cover this when we played around in the car.
To my relief, Nick returns a moment later, and comes to my side with a towel. Tenderly, he wipes at my face and hands. I can do it myself, but there's a possessive look in his eyes that dares me to contradict him, so I don't. He cleans me up, wipes down his belly, and then tosses the towel into the laundry hamper near the bathroom door. To my surprise, he returns back to the bathroom, and I hear water running. A moment later, he appears with a wet washcloth.
"Take your panties off."
I gasp. "Why?"
"So I can take care of you."
My face burns with embarrassment as I slide off my now-wet panties. Nick draws me close to him and moves the warm, wet washcloth between my legs, bathing me. His gaze is on my face the entire time, and to my horror, I begin to get aroused all over again.
"Are you sore, Daisy?"
His whispered words are embarrassing to me. "It hurt a little, but it wasn't a bad hurt."
He brushes my hair away from my face and tenderly kisses my mouth. "I must remember to be more careful with you. You are treasure, and I don't want to hurt you. I just…lost control of myself. I had to touch you."
"I'm glad you did," I say shyly, and I wrap my arms around his neck.
He gives me another long kiss, and then he nods at the bed. "Come. Now we sleep, da?"
And this time, when he pulls me against his side, I'm able to relax and go to sleep. I curl up against him and think that Nick being in my bed—and in my life—is the best thing ever.
I'm so glad I ran away. My hand pets Nick, but it's not an exploratory petting, not like before. It's a comforting, soothing, just-checking-to-make-sure-you're-really-there sort of motion. I think of the circles under Nick's eyes, and I feel a momentary stab of guilt that I've kept him awake. He's exhausted, and whatever his job is, it must be taking a lot out of him.
I consider this for a moment. "Nick."
"Mmm?" His voice is sleepy, and he hugs me tighter.
"Do you still watch me?" It's occurred to me that I work late hours, and he seems to know intimate details of my job.
"Da."
"While I'm at work?"
He is silent for a long, long moment, which means he is trying to cobble together a bad lie. After a moment, he heaves a sigh. "Da. It is not a safe job. I worry."
I sit up in bed, regarding him. "You're exhausted. You can't be up all hours watching me."
His eyes regard me in the dark, now wide awake. "You said you did not mind."
"I said I don't mind if you watch me and I know about it. But there's a difference between watching and stalking. I'm fine at work. They have security cameras and everything." I give him my most stubborn look. "I don't want you watching me there, okay?"
"Is not up for discussion—"
"Nick," I say in a warning tone. "I'm serious. If you can't respect that about our relationship, I don't know that we can have one."
His eyes go cold. "Do you put an ultimatum on me, Daisy?"
"Yes, I do," I say. And my heart squeezes with pain, but this is important. "My father trapped me in our house for twenty-one years because he needed to control everything I did. The reason why we—why you and I—work so well is because you let me have as much control as I want." I reach a hand out and lay it flat on his chest, a silent entreaty. "But if you can't respect my boundaries, you're no better than him."
He is silent for so long that I know he's angry. I expect him to get out of bed and leave. But he doesn't. Instead, he looks at me with those sad, tortured eyes and brushes a finger along my jawline. "Da. I do this for you, Daisy. I will only watch you here in your apartment. This is all right?"
"Yes," I say, relieved. "Spasiba."
&n
bsp; He laughs, surprised at my Russian. "Why do you thank me?"
"For caring enough to care about how I feel."
He pulls me close again, snuggling with me on the bed. "I do not think you realize, Daisy. You are everything to me."
Chapter Eleven
DAISY
"MAN, THIS WEATHER IS AWFUL." Regan peers out the window at the pouring rain and recoils when it thunders. "You sure you want to walk to work? I can drive you."
"It's only two blocks," I say, reaching for my coat. I shrug it on and then head to the window that Regan is peering out. It does look awful outside. I hesitate, watching the rain slant sideways. By the time I get to work, I will be soaked, and it will make for a miserable evening. There's no point in taking the bus, though, not for a walk of two blocks. I consider Regan's offer. "If you drive me, can you pick me up, too?"
She gives me a thumbs up and then just as quickly frowns. "Oh. I'd have to borrow your phone. I dropped mine yesterday and now it won't work."
I glance out the window again, at the furious storm, and then I reluctantly pull my phone out of my pocket. I don't want to give Regan my phone. It's my only connection to Nick while he's out of town. I'll miss his sweet, thoughtful texts that make the hours at work pass faster. But it's either that or sit in soaked clothing behind the counter all night. With only a little hesitation, I hand her my phone. "If Nick calls, just let it go to voicemail."
"Of course," Regan says, pocketing my phone and not even glancing at the screen. "There's no dirty selfies on here, are there?"
"What? No!"
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding, Pollyanna." She waves a hand at me. "I'm not going to look at your phone. Don't freak out. I won't even use it. Just call it when you're ready to be picked up, and I'll hop into the car. I promise."
I nod. "I trust you." She's my only friend besides Nick. Of course I trust her.
"So…you and Nick are pretty serious, huh?" She turns away from the window and heads to the counter to grab her car keys.
"I think so."
"He's your first serious relationship, isn't he?"
I nod, though I can feel the blush stinging my cheeks.
Regan puts a hand on my shoulder, the look on her face serious. "I know you're pretty innocent, Pollyanna. Do we need to have a birds and the bees talk?"
"I know how sex works, Regan!" I can't believe we are having this conversation. Regan's not more than a year older than me. Sexually, though, I suppose she is vastly more experienced than I am, even after my few encounters with Nick.
"I'm just looking out for you, girlfriend." She pats my shoulder. "I'm glad to hear it, though. Don't let him pressure you into doing something you don't want to do."
"Nick's not like that," I protest. If anything, I am the one pressuring Nick into more sexual experimentation than he's asked for. I'm just so eager to experience all of what life has to offer that I can't hold back. I'm greedy with him. He offers me kisses, and I want more. "You don't have to worry."
"I can't help but worry," Regan says as we step out of the apartment and into the hallway. "You're just so sweet and innocent. I kinda thought you'd be with, I don't know. A different type than him."
"What do you mean, his type?" Now I'm curious what she thinks.
"I don't know. I just pictured you with some nice, equally innocent, sweater-wearing mama's boy. Not one that runs around on a crotch rocket."
I think of my Nick, with his tattooed hands and strong body and eyes that can be so cold…until they look at me. Then they have all the warmth in the world. "He owns a sweater," I mumble. At least, I am pretty sure he does.
"Like I said, I'm just looking out for you," she says, and there is concern in her eyes as we head down the hall and down the stairs. "I know it's none of my business, but I feel a bit like an older sister around you, and I'm just trying to make sure you don't get hurt."
"Nick would never hurt me," I say softly, and I know it's the truth. He keeps warning me away from him, as if certain I will wake up and realize he is bad for me. He doesn't realize that I love his differences. I don't mind that he's had a hard, ugly life before we met. I know what it's like to not want your past to define you. Only the present matters, and in the present, I am with Nick, and he is with me, and what I feel for him can't be contained by regular words or thoughts.
"Once you meet him, you'll see what a great guy he is." I think it's sweet that Regan is concerned. She is a good friend. She voices her concerns, but in the end, it is still my choice, and I have made it.
I feel naked without my phone in my hand. Surely I can surely go a few hours without Nick's texts, though I already feel their loss keenly.
"So are you expecting a call from Nick?" Regan asks. "Want me to call you up at the gas station if he calls?"
"I don't know that he'll call me," I tell her honestly. "He's out of town."
"Business?"
"I think so."
"What's he do?"
"Computer stuff," I tell her. Nick hasn't really said too much about what he does, and I haven't asked. It's clear that he doesn't want it to define him, and I understand that. I am no more just a gas station employee than he is…well, whatever he is.
From what Nick has told me and his sense of shame at his profession, I suspect it is something not entirely legal. Perhaps he pirates movies and sells them on the Internet. Maybe he is a hacker. Either of these is possible, and neither matters, though I do worry that one day his calls will be from jail.
But Nick is a grown man. I don't want to control him any more than I want him to control me. So I haven't broached the subject. When he wants me to know more, he'll tell me.
"Well, regardless," Regan says as we get to the bottom of the stairs. "If he calls, I won't answer."
"Thank you," I tell her. And a moment later, I add, "But you'll still call me and tell me, right?"
She laughs. "Will do."
WITH MY PHONE AND NICK to text, a night at work never seems to drag.
Without both, the hours tick by slowly. I stare at the security monitors for an eternity—the most boring television viewing ever, even compared to PBS—and think about Nick instead. Does he miss me? Is he thinking about me? Is he texting me and wondering where I am? I should have texted him to let him know Regan has my phone. I didn't think about it, and now he'll be wondering where I'm at. Poor Nick. His evening will be just as lifeless as mine.
When I can stand staring at the security cameras no longer, I decide to stock candy bars and lottery tickets. I don't like to leave the counter, even though Craig said sometimes you just have to. You pick a slow moment to go to the bathroom, preferably late at night. I have learned to pee fast and to not drink much prior to my shift. But boredom causes me to retreat to the back room for the occasional retrieval of a box so my hands can have something to do while I monitor my lonely counter.
The last person to purchase a Slurpee complained about the flavoring, so I decide to refill the machine by changing out the syrup bag. They're kept on a shelf in the back so I pull out the step stool and climb up to get it when I hear a familiar chime. It's the door, letting me know there is a customer in the store. That's hardly unusual in itself, but it's one in the morning, it's raining, and foot traffic has been slow. "Just a minute," I call out, tugging the box of diet soda syrup out from under a stack of root beer flavors. While I do, I glance at the security camera.
There are two men in suits that have entered. Both are wearing sunglasses. One has paused by the door and puts a hand inside his jacket and leaves it there. He scans the room as the other stalks around inside.
This…makes me anxious. I'm not entirely sure why. It strikes me as unnatural, even more so when they begin to speak in a language I recognize but don't understand: Russian.
My skin prickles with alarm. Do these people know Nick? There are surely not that many Russians in the city, are there? And why would they show up at a gas station at one in the morning in suits? I think about Nick's job, his likely computer hac
king. Are these people looking for him? Maybe they are police, but that doesn't explain why they speak Russian.
I'm scared. I'm so terrified I immediately begin to shake, but I somehow manage to go to the stock room door and shut it—and lock it—before anyone can come back here.
Two seconds later, a hand jiggles the knob. I hear swearing, and then a man calls out to the other in Russian. They're clearly angry, and one slams against the door. I turn to the cameras but both have moved out of sight. They are probably at the door.
I am trapped.
My brain shuts down. I stop shaking. I've been trapped before. I spent twenty-one years trapped and cornered. I know how to function like this. The best thing I can do is to stop thinking, stop processing, and just exist. Do what needs to be done.
I calmly drag a shelf in front of the door, though it's heavy and I can't push it more than a few feet. Once they figure out how to open the door, it will fall over and block the way out, but I'm stuck anyhow.
I'm not helpless, though. I go to the time-clock and the lockbox that is kept underneath it. I open it and pull out the C2 Taser Gun. The bat is under the counter up front at the cash register, so I can't get to it. Calmly, I pick up the body of the Taser and then the battery pack that goes into the back. I slide it in and consider the air cartridge. These men look like they could carry guns. If I aim mine at them, I need to be faster. Better to have the element of surprise. I skip the air cartridge and will use the C2 as a stun gun instead. If they come close enough to grab me, I only have one chance anyhow.
I'm so calm as I slide the safety cover on the switch back and ready the gun. Then, I crouch in the farthest corner of the room, my hands tucked between my legs so I can hide the gun, and wait.
On the camera, I see one man return to the front of the store. He's watching so no one else comes in. The other continues to fuss with the knob on the storeroom door, and I'm waiting for the click that will tell me he's worked his way in.
Last Hit (Hitman) Page 19
